The Wolves of Winter. Tyrell Johnson

Чтение книги онлайн.

      Jax had gone—or been escorted, rather—to Jeryl’s cabin after dinner. Dinner had been mostly quiet. Small talk here and there. A lot of stares. A lot of tension. Even the sound of a boot scuffling beneath the table seemed to set everyone on edge. Ramsey had looked especially agitated. Kept giving Jax the stink eye. Ken mouthed off once or twice, Jeryl asked a few less interview-like questions about game and hunting and Wolf, and Mom sat silently, chewing her meat like she was trying to kill the thing all over again.

      That night was clear and full of stars. In Chicago, I remembered nights where you could make out only a single star, high in the sky, escaping the purple hum of electric light. But that’s hard for me to picture now. After moving to Eagle, Alaska, a tiny town, and then to McBridesville, Yukon, a much smaller town, I was used to the stars. There were so many of them that they smeared together into a silver bulb that reflected off the snow. A black canvas of stars, a white canvas of stars. Me, caught in the middle.

      I decided to go for a walk. Mom and Jeryl hated when I walked at night, but they couldn’t do shit about it. I was a grown woman. Ken used to joke, “Bet she’s sneaking off to Conrad’s place. Atta girl.” He didn’t make that joke tonight.

      I headed east up one of the hills that framed our little homestead. From there you got a nice view of the valleys, the river, and the hills beyond. I walked slowly, my feet punching holes in the untouched snow. The point wasn’t to get somewhere—the point was to be out. Sometimes the cabin felt too close. In winter, we’d get hit with long, heavy storms, and during those times we’d all be cooped up between those walls for way too long. So I tried to get out as much as I could while I could.

      I reached the top of the hill. The pine, fir, and spruce trees were bent like old men, carrying their burden of snow. A few dead birch, poplar, and cottonwood trees stood closer to the river, their spindly branches sleeping out the cold. Everything was so clear, so sharp under the light of the stars, you could cut your finger on it. It really was a beautiful place. You just had to get over the freezing weather, the darkness, the loneliness, the cabin fever, the boredom—oh God, the boredom—the shitty food, and the repetitive routine.

      I heard rustling behind me and turned. Bounding up the hill was a white figure. An animal. Wolf. Not a wolf. But Wolf. He charged at me, and for half a second, I thought he’d gone feral. My hand dropped to my Hän knife at my belt. He nearly barreled into me, but kept on going a few feet before turning around. He paused, staring at me. His tongue was out, flopped to one side like it was too heavy for his mouth. I didn’t know what to do. Did he want me to throw a stick or something? He circled the snow once or twice, then sat, leaning up against my leg, panting. He was surprisingly heavy.

      Dogs are weird.

      With СКАЧАТЬ